


he is the night

by serenier



Series: a flame that never dies [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, FWB, M/M, Mentions of terminal illness, Minor Violence, Other, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of the death of parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenier/pseuds/serenier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out that letting a little mystery into your life can be the right choice.</p>
<p>(In which Babet and Claquesous's rather strange friendship is recounted and a family begins to take shape.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	he is the night

Every night, Babet Lemieux went out for a drink. It hadn't always been that way, but with the way times were lately, people often went out to forget their troubles. Babet was one of those people; as a young man who had just been left by his wife and two daughters, and who had just lost his job as a doctor, he figured he damn well deserved the occasional drink or two. 

It had gotten to the point where he was far too familiar with the bar. He knew the bartender's name, and that he himself had come from Tours. He knew at least one thing about everyone that stepped foot into the place; he knew that most of the waitresses were young college students, and that the whiskey was a bit watered down. He also knew damn well that asking for a glass water at a bar was as good as scooping out toilet water from the musty bathrooms. It didn't take a genius to figure it. 

On this particular night, fate had left Babet in his usual spot at the barstool near the counter, his hand wrapped around a glass of vodka instead of around the money, specifically, the two grand, he was supposed to earn from this last job. It had been a simple delivery, but he had mistaken one place for another, and, long story short, he had just barely escaped a scuffle. So there he sat, half drunk and watching the waitress with a sort of amused sympathy. 

"Shit, well, I don't know what to say to that," he muttered, staring into his drink thoughtfully. "You can't exactly ask me about fashion. I'd be about 15 years behind." 

The waitress, whose name tag read "FANTINE" in loopy, pink letters, managed a small, albeit nervous, smile. "I just haven't decided yet. My boyfriend is going to take my friends and I out for lunch." She messed with her blonde locks a bit playfully. "I always feel so plain compared to them. But... I just feel as though I should impress him, you know? It all just feels so... Petty. " 

Babet let out a hum of agreement. He was used to this sort of talk; Fantine's first boyfriend Tholomyes was currently the light of her. He might be able to guess what he was talking about back then, but he wasn't exactly a romance guru. He ran a hand through his blond hair and was about to respond when the door swung open. 

"What the hell?" Babet couldn't help but stare at the figure that had just appeared before all of them. It was tall, presumably a man, though you could hardly tell. His clothes looked like something out of Assassin's Creed or some shit, complete with a dark hood, gloves, and a shirt and pants that covered nearly -- no, literally -- every inch of skin. The cherry on top was that he was wearing a gas mask. A gas mask. His boots clicked against the wood floor. 

Brushing past Babet, the mysterious figure strode up to Fantine. "Water, please." Okay, he was most likely a man, with a voice that deep. Babet tried to peer at his face, or at least at the eyes underneath the mask. Maybe it was an older customer coming to play a joke. 

Surprisingly, the sudden appearance of a man who looked like some sort of post apocalyptic ninja didn't seem to phase the other customers much. Fantine herself just smiled at him. "Water? Coming right up!" she said in her cheerful, "new customer" voice. The waitress's ponytail bounced as she walked over to the tap. 

Usually, he didn't speak up when he came to newcomers blowing through town and getting the worse end of the stick. But lately, Babet's thought filter seemed to have just quit on him altogether. "Did you seriously just order water in a bar?" he heard himself asking. 

The man turned to him. Shit, it was really hard to read emotions when the person's entire face is covered up. He was about to give up and turn back to his drink when the man muttered, "What of it?" 

"Don't you know? The water here is shit." He took a small swig of his drink. 

"Mm," said the man slowly. "I don't think it's your business."

"No, seriously. Unless you want to get some sort of weird parasitic virus, I suggest you order something else." Babet had noticed by now that the man had a slight accent, although it was too faint to be properly distinguished. 

"I don't drink."

Babet stared. "Why the hell are you in a bar, then?" 

"It isn't any of your business," he replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Before either could say any more, Fantine came back with a small glass of water. She looked slightly apologetic, as though she knew what this man was about to go through. He, however, seemed deep in thought -- not like one could tell, what with every inch of his face covered.

Babet watched him incredulously. He wasn't even drinking the damn water. What was the point? He was obviously up to something else, but no one in their right mind would dress like that for a job, what the fuck? 

His musings proved to be true, because a few moments later, the door swung open with a trusty squeak and in walked another man clad in normal clothing. Babet recognized him as a dealer from around, no big deal. Pretty sure his name was Jean Brujon or some shit like that. He'd never had business with him before, and he wasn't exactly hot shit, so he didn't exactly know the guy. 

The stranger beside him shifted uncomfortably, before standing and staring silently at Brujon. Brujon, in return, nodded stiffly, seemingly used to this attire. It made the slightly intoxicated man wonder if these two had ever talked with each other before, or to real human beings on their lives. They seemed to have an almost silent conversation, nodding before heading out the door. 

Now, on his better judgement, the ex doctor wouldn't usually follow anyone out while they were doing their business, let alone follow a man who could basically come from a horror movie. But as usual, his better judgement had been failing him lately; his head was spinning slightly and his feet seem to carry him on their own will. He left a tip and strode quickly out the door. 

The faint light of the street lamps were essential to Babet's chase, as the pair was faster than he could follow in the dark. He stumbled behind them quietly, struggling to control his ragged breathing. Damn, he may have been thin, but he sure as hell wasn't fit. At least, not drunk. He ducked behind a garbage can carefully. 

"Claquesous, we need to talk about the way you handle clients." Brujon suddenly broke the silence. 

The masked figure, apparently Claquesous, looked over. "What do you mean?" he asked, completely calm. 

"I mean that, you're encroaching on my territory." What territory, Babet thought with a soft snort, as the man lit a cigarette. "This is where I sell, and if you can't stick to the agreement we had--"

Claquesous watched him curiously, his eyes following the thin trail of smoke from the embers of the cigarette. "... Our agreement was that I was to stay within my territory. However, I am beginning to think that this bargain isn't exactly in my best interests."

"Oh? And how is that?" 

The air was quiet for a few moments. Babet peeked around the bin a bit more, watching Claquesous shift on his feet. Shit, he looked like he might bolt. Or just stay quiet forever. "I am simply seeking a larger profit," he said instead, still completely calm.

Brujon's eyes narrowed, but he chuckled, as though he had heard a joke that wasn't amusing at all. "... You know, my people don't take kindly to this kind of thing." A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and he took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Usually... Our word is our bond."

"... Well, this agreement no longer interests me." Claquesous's hand flickered to his pocket, ready to grab his weapon. Babet briefly wondered if this guy was more of a gun or knife type of man, or if maybe he was more for hand to hand combat. That would be kind of hard, possibly, with all of that equipment on--

A low growl made the crouched man start. "You'll pay for this, y'know," Brujon growls. "Do you know how much profit I've lost because of you?" 

The other man stayed silent, his visage not unlike that of a doll. Fucking creepy. A bug fell on Babet's leg and he cursed softly, brushing it onto the ground. 

"It is done," said Claquesous with a certain firmness. Although his face wasn't visible, his voice caused Brujon to glare at him, and the slightly taller man took a few paces closer to him, pulling out a knife. It was damn hard to hear when you were that far away and Babet strained to hear them. 

"You listen to me," Brujon was muttering, waving the knife near his skin, "Now that this is over... There is no way in hell I'm tolerating your bullshit on my turf. Do you understand me?"

Claquesous stayed silent but suddenly grabbed Brujon's arm, twisting it in such a way, with such speed, that his knife clattered to the ground. 

A pained sound cut through the air and Babet could hear the rustle of fabric as the two men fought. "Shit!" Brujon took a step back, and dropped his cigarette, his face vanishing from view with the glowing cherry of his cigarette. A few unintelligible words were thrown between the two, and Brujon could be heard grinding his foot over his cigarette, turning on his heel. All was silent, but Babet could still hear the heavy tread of his shoes on the bricks. 

A voice broke the silence. "Why did you follow me?" It was accusatory. Ah, shit. He hadn't been as stealthy as he'd thought. He tried to stay silent, standing slowly. "I'm not an idiot," Claquesous's voice continued, completely unamused. "What do you need?"

Babet paused, considering. Why had he followed him? "Need?" he replied, in a questioning voice. "I don't need anything. I was just..." His voice trailed off as his buzzed brain searched for the least creepy way to word this. There was a silence, and suddenly, he was being shoved into the wall. 

"Answer me. If it is money you want, then you've come to the wrong place."

Babet couldn't help but laugh, just slightly. This was all so ridiculous. He had no doubts that the man could beat the shit out of him. He was better with guns and certain hand to hand combat. Claquesous's grip on his shoulder tightened. Babet rolled his eyes. "First, let go of me. I'm not going to do shit."

Claquesous seemed to consider this, stilling Babet from his slight swaying, before releasing his grip entirely. Jesus Christ, Babet thought as he rubbed his shoulder a little, he was certainly getting into more than he usually did on a usual night. 

"I was just curious, actually." It was hard to tell how Claquesous was feeling because of the mask he was wearing; he was virtually unreadable. Clever. 

"... This is my business, not yours," he said, unamused. 

"And, I don't mean to offend, but you know jack shit about Paris."

Claquesous shifted. "And I suppose you would know?" His tone was laced with disapproval. Babet scoffed. 

"You mean, how can a drunk like him know shit about a complex business like this?" Babet considered himself a connoisseur of fine whiskey and watered down beer. He had for a while, even before what had recently happened, and he knew damn well that it didn't make him any less smart, and it didn't change the fact that he was Dr. LeMieux. 

Claquesous shifted a little. His silence confirmed what Babet already knew, and he chuckled again. "I may be a drunk, but I'm not an idiot. I know this area. I'm in the business." Claquesous continued to stare -- or, look in his general direction; with that damn mask, he couldn't exactly tell -- and Babet continued, "You're very obviously new to this area."

The other man scoffed slightly and took a couple of steps back. Babet, in return, moved closer. "Have you been in this business for long?" Still waiting for a reply, he muttered, "Brujon isn't the best at this shit, seems like. Figures."

"And what would you know?" Claquesous countered, walking closer to the wall of the abandoned hotel next door. "I do not even know your name."

Well, he was doing this all wrong. "Name's Babet. I've been working here for quite a bit. Took a short break, but I'm back now." He smirked. It was true; Babet was pretty respected in this community. After all, he had grown up and had seen nearly all of the new branches spring up. 

Claquesous paused. "Really." He seemed as though he were about to reply when he suddenly grabbed the fire escape ladder and nearly flung himself on it. 

Shit. Seriously, was he being that creepy? ... Most likely. He hadn't noticed. "I can help you," he called after the man as an attempt to keep him, his eyes deciding that the ladder wasn't worth it. 

The sound of feet on ladder rungs paused briefly, and the man's muffled voice sounded slightly annoyed. "Why do you want to help me?" ... Good question. 

"I've been in your place."

Claquesous scoffed, as though the mere idea of that was completely ridiculous. "Been in my place?" 

"Well, obviously not in your exact place. But I was new to this area, once. And I had someone to help me." It was true, for the most part. He had had two people who had coaxed him into the scene. 

Staying at his place on the ladder, the shorter man seemed to consider this. "What do you have to offer?" he says slowly, as though he is carefully considering his words.  
There was silence, and Babet began to question his drunken decision making. Hell, the man was a good fighter but Babet didn't see why he had to lick dirt for him. 

"I don't work with drunks," came Claquesous's reply a few seconds later. 

Babet's jaw twitched with annoyance, but that smirk was still there. "Just because I drink and you don't doesn't mean you get to have a fucking holier-than-thou complex. Contrary to popular belief, I actually know my shit."

"... Could you prove it?" His tone was wary. 

Sighing, Babet pulled out a cigarette. What the hell was he doing? "I could show you the ropes. Who not to talk to. What not to say. Hell, I watched you talk to Brujon over there about your deal--" Claquesous visibly tensed at this, "--and it's almost as if you're trying to kill your reputation around here."

Claquesous slid from the ladder. How the hell did he move so fluidly with all of that extra shit on him? "... I was simply leaving, for my best interest." 

"Hell, you can break off a deal, but it's the goin' behind his back that's the problem."

"Then you suggest we work together." Babet paused. It really had been a while. Maybe he should hold off. 

To hell with it. 

"Yeah. I do. I saw your fighting. You're a damn good fighter and you'd probably be good at this shit if you learned the ropes," he said thoughtfully. "I'm a decent fighter with guns and shit, some hand to hand combat. And I've been in this business for... A few years, to put it lightly."

Claquesous's masked gaze seemed to follow him. That gas mask was fucking creepy. Babet continued, "I don't ask questions. I won't expect anything from you except for you to do your share."

"And the money?"

"Well, we each get our fair share. Unless one of us goes solo for a job or something." The lack of a response left a certain air of doubt about the situation, and Babet quickly added, "I don't ask questions." 

"...Fine."

... He hadn't expected that. Did he seriously just pull this off? "Seriously?" he said aloud, only a slight bit incredulously. "Fuckin sweet, man." 

The night wind blew through the alley up and Babet pulled in closer to himself. Shuddering, he watched as Claquesous stepped down from the ladder. The idea of working with this masked man didn't exactly sit completely well with Babet, but hell, he was drunk, and he needed a little bit of adventure in his life. As if the trade itself wasn't adventure enough. 

"... We can meet here tomorrow," Claquesous said decisively but also in a wary tone. He started the climb up the ladder. 

Babet didn't want to speak, but his mouth had a mind of its own. "Where are you staying?" 

"I thought you said you weren't asking questions," Claquesous scoffed as he climbed, up to the building of the roof. Babet had to squint to see the faint reflection of the moon in the optics of his mask. He considered following him, a second time, but the thought of climbing up a ladder to a rooftop with a mysterious man just didn't sit well with him. 

"Well," he began, smirking a little, "It'd be a little counterproductive if we were partners and I never knew where to find you. Relax, I'm going to tell you where I live, too." Giving out your address? Nice thinking, Babet. Why don't you conveniently provide him with your credit card number too?

Claquesous seemed to loom over him at his spot on the roof, an odd shadow against the pale moon. Oddly poetic, if he was completely honest. "... Around."

Babet raised an eyebrow. "Around?" There was a pause and Claquesous pointed vaguely behind him. Babet frowned. "... Uh, the roof?" he muttered, not able to contain the disbelief creeping into his voice. 

"The building. It's convenient."

He may not have been an expert on old Parisian hotels, but one thing he did know is that they didn't have heating, especially this time of year. Hell, he'd thought that this building was condemned due to rats or something. It was a lovely building; at least, from the outside it was, its decorative awnings and gargoyles staring over the city like a silent protector. The heart of Paris was filled with old buildings like this; in fact, these buildings, although lifeless, were the skeleton of the city and its past. 

"Come live with me," he suddenly heard himself saying. What the hell was with him and impulse decisions tonight?

The silence seemed to draw out for a while, for long enough that Babet decided to pull out a cigarette, his slightly gaunt and stubbly face sparking to life with the bright burst of the cigarette. It dulled to a soft glow, and a Claquesous's voice cut through the silence. "Where do you live?"

Babet smirked; this was a good as a yes, wasn't it? "I could show you." He took a drag from his cigarette. "You don't have to live there immediately. Just a suggestion. These places get cold as hell at night."

"Fine," the other man muttered, as though he were in no position to refuse. "Do you smoke, too?" 

Babet raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, occasionally." Occasionally was a hell of an understatement. He began to walk, expecting Claquesous to follow him. Hearing the slight tap of boots as he dropped to his feet from the ladder, the taller man picked up the pace. They walked together in silence, not exactly awkward, but not comfortable, either. 

Babet turned a corner. His house was conveniently placed on a side street a few blocks away from the bar, tucked away from the other houses like a forgotten dollhouse. It was anything but, however. Babet had found this house, closed up and abandoned; empty. It was quite like himself, he'd mused. Alone, empty. He had devoted about six months to just fixing the house up; it was never unbearable, but now, the house still felt lived in. And Babet loved it that way. 

They stepped into the creaky porch light and Babet briefly looked back at his companion. Even now, seeing him in the light, he still seemed as though he were a shadow: fleeting and dark, mysterious. It was strange, but Babet shrugged and pulled out his key, letting the wooden door creak open slowly. "Uh... Come on in." Claquesous followed him inside. Shit, he really hadn't been expecting guests. The house was slightly sloppy, beer bottles on the coffee table and the occasional clutter on the floor, The underlying feeling of the house being "lived in" was definitely present. "Sorry, it's a bit messy," Babet added, taking off his coat and setting it on the kitchen chair. 

Having him in his home made Babet slightly wary, but it was kind of nice to have someone else there. It was an odd feeling, knowing that if Claquesous wanted to hurt him, then he probably could. Not to say Babet wasn't aware of this to begin with; he was always at the ready to grab his pistol. Claquesous continued to glance around, his expression still hidden by that mask. It made Babet curious, more than anything, but he had said no questions. 

"... I can sleep on the couch," Claquesous decided, walking over to the couch and sitting down with a certain sense of fluid grace. He still made no movement to take off his mask or hood. Babet paused, studying him for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. 

"You do know I have a room upstairs, right? A guest room." Babet wasn't one for company, so it was usually empty. Not many people want to come home with a man who's got nothing to offer. "Why the hell would I invite someone home if I didn't have a spare room?" Claquesous shrugged just slightly and stood, walking up to the staircase. 

Babet followed after him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't read Claquesous, and it bothered him. He himself was pretty good at putting up a front, if he needed to, and he was usually good at reading situations. This one, though, was going to be hard as hell to read. He couldn't for the life of him see any bit of skin or hair; the mask covered Claquesous's eyes, and he had a hood pulled up over his head. Gloves adorned his fingers, which were ghosting over the outline of what was probably a weapon in his pocket. He was of short stature, and his voice was slightly muffled by the mask. Hell, he was even quiet. His voice being the perfect picture of calm and collected, he couldn't exactly use that to predict his emotions. 

A soft sigh escaped him, despite his best efforts. The other man looked up at him with what he assumed was a curious expression. Shit, he hadn't realized they were there already. "Uh," he began, before he walked over to the second door about halfway down the upstairs hallway, pulling open the door. Claquesous joined him, glancing inside. It wasn't much; the bed was made with standard sheets and looked as though it might have a layer of dust on it, and the window was covered with a thin sheen-like curtain. The wallpaper, however, was old and flowery. Babet glanced at the masked man, trying to gage his reaction, before he remembered that it was like looking at a wall. 

"Just... Call if you need anything, I guess. I'm going to go to sleep," he said as he shrugged awkwardly. Claquesous nodded and set his things down. Great, that was dealt with for now. Sober Babet would get to deal with this, in the morning. He shut the door and walked to his room. A mirror stood off to the side, near the bed, and Babet studied his features. He himself was tall and very lean; he had very little fat and he was beginning to rock that haggard drunk look. Sandy hair was brushed haphazardly into a side part, and his faded blue eyes were sunken in and tired. He'd been attractive once, he thought. Wasn't much of a looker now, though. 

His hands absentmindedly reached for the sticky notes on his desk. Might as well write a note for his future self. He carefully wrote out what he considered to be a good note, before kicking off his shoes and slipping under the covers. He hoped he could get this last bit of peaceful sleep before everything went to shit. Babet sighed and shut his eyes, any worries he had had slipping out of his mind like sand through a sieve.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've started the next chapter; this is my first fic and it's mostly based on my hcs of these characters so? please critique me if u have the chance!!


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